


Something Precious

by liviay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 22:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20265838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liviay/pseuds/liviay
Summary: Aziraphale remembers everything, particularly how he wasn’t supposed to admire such a heinous creature, but then-Crawly wasn’t heinous at all, just chatty and friendly. He looked so inoffensive, gentle even, deserving of love as much as any of God’s creations. And Aziraphale had an angelic supply of love, he could spend a small bit with Crowley.* * *Crowley and Aziraphale's first time, right after the Apocalypse That Wasn't





	Something Precious

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this, hope you enjoy it too! :)  
The characters are based on their TV series personae, but I stole a few things from the book.

Lunch at the Ritz was very pleasant, and it’s a nice day after all, the sky melting slowly into a pink sunset, the first chilly winds picking up as summer fades. Following Aziraphale into the bookshop feels now like a decision and not an impulse, contrary to the thousands of times Crowley has done it before, absentminded. He knows this is a long overdue action, so exhilarating and terrifying he’s glad for the sunglasses covering his eyes, for his practiced nonchalance.

The demon lingers at the first shelf of the shop, pretending to examine the books there as this antediluvian yearning expands inside his chest, trying to escape Crowley’s body with each exhale. It’s not the first time Crowley feels it struggling to break away, but never like this, with a painful urgency that hastens his heartbeat and makes his hands clumsy and his thoughts stumble on themselves. Crowley is all over the place, and he knows he can’t just go and do things haphazardly as usual. He can’t descend any deeper, has already fallen; but Aziraphale still might have to face the Fall.

Crowley wonders if it would be fair to wager on the angel’s safety. He can’t be the cause of anything bad happening to Aziraphale, but these things he’s feeling are rioting inside him. It’s time to lay the cards on the table: he’s a fucking demon, gambling should be an easy vice and Crowley knows a trick or two. It’s not like he wouldn’t cheat to protect Aziraphale, especially now that he’s sure the tricks work. They finally have a head start. But he can’t think of a clever way to come clean with the angel. He swallows down the craving in his chest, tries to tame it, pretending it’s a puff of smoke he has to keep in his lungs until the effect kicks in. That reminds him of the fags he abandoned when humans decided they weren’t fashionable anymore, and Crowley sighs, glumly. 

Of course this isn’t working. Panicking would be the easy way out of this scenario, and Crowley considers to turn around and leave. Instead, he watches Aziraphale go to the back room to fetch some wine and feels awkward, the comfortable familiarity they usually partake slipping through Crowley like water sliding off the sides of a duck, or something like that. He’s not thinking straight; drops a book to the floor, miracles it back to its place and then huffs when he remembers he could’ve just picked it up. 

“My dear boy, take a seat, I’ll be there in a minute,” Aziraphale shouts, unaware of Crowley’s ordeal. This agony is intimate, bloody visceral, trapped in a cage of Crowley’s own making, built to protect his friend from even a singe of demonic longing. Because Crowley’s desire burns, a brimstone-yellow blaze that gleams behind his snake eyes, the most obvious and everlasting sign of his damnation. It’s a greedy, hungry force he’s been trying to smother for millennia. 

But he’s tired of that horse shit. He hates horses. And he’s no coward, right? He defyed Satan, he prevented the Apocalypse, he saved this stupid planet and everything on it, didn’t he? And Aziraphale was there to help. Well, if the angel is still an Angel even after swindling the lot upstairs, then maybe if Crowley reveals his devotion, as preternaturally inappropriate as it is... that won’t bring Aziraphale’s downfall. Can Crowley really bet on that? The prospect of winning seems to be the single power keeping Crowley’s old bones in their right places. He starts to move again; worried, yes, but sizzling with purpose. 

Crowley walks further into Aziraphale’s shop, then halts when he sees the old brown sofa and the coffee table. He’s too antsy to sit down, too self-conscious to pace. There’s some fancy candy, a book, and a funny little tube on the table. Looks like a lipstick and Crowley grabs it with curiosity, reads  _ milk and honey balm _ written across the lid.

“Having trouble with dry lips, dear?” Aziraphale asks, finally back with the alcohol. Crowley eyes him with a furrowed brow, but doesn’t answer. Light from the ceiling lamp has fallen over Aziraphale’s hair, making the golden-white curls shine blindingly for a split second, and Crowley forgets his whereabouts, forgets the cosmetic he’s holding, and the question stuns him: why the hell is this angel talking about lips? 

Aziraphale remains unfazed as he sets the glasses and bottle on the table, then strides dangerously close to Crowley, away from the glorious stream of light. The moment passes, dispersing the glaring halo on Aziraphale’s head as he inspects Crowley’s face with meticulous sympathy. Crowley swallows the vanishing saliva inside his mouth, doesn’t move an inch. He knows how Aziraphale smells and it’s been ages since he learned how to ignore it, but at this distance the scent overwhelms him, sweet myrrh and jasmine, with a tinge of something bitter, citrusy.  _ Crisp and sharp even underneath all the softness _ , Crowley thinks.  _ Deep down, just enough of a bastard _ . 

Aziraphale grabs the tube from Crowley’s hands without looking at it, takes off its lid, then gets even closer, their chests touching slightly as Aziraphale twists the base, and a cream-colored stick unfolds. Crowley’s eyes widen behind his sunglasses and his hands feel glued to the sides of his body, all of a sudden too heavy even to be lifted and hidden in his pockets. “This is just the  _ best _ lip balm, you have to try it,'' Aziraphale gushes. “Let me help you,” he says, smiling as he spreads the ointment on Crowley’s parted, astonished lips. Crowley still can’t move, but he can taste it, vanilla-like, so sweet.

Aziraphale smacks his own lips together, and Crowley slowly mimics him, mesmerized. If this ever was a bet, the angel is dealing the cards.

* * *

Aziraphale is focused on saving Crowley from chapped lips until he sees himself reflected in those sunglasses, two tiny angels looking way too happy, too eager. Crowley is slowly licking his own bottom lip with a very human tongue, but is otherwise still. It’s rather odd: Crowley is such a restless creature, and yet Aziraphale can feel the demon’s immobility. They’re pressed against each other, and Aziraphale fears he might burn Crowley like he’s seen other holy things do. 

Maybe he’s not so holy anymore, because Crowley doesn’t seem upset by the proximity. But possibly having lost some of his holiness doesn’t bother Aziraphale that much, if it means he’s harmless to Crowley. That’s good, really good, in a way that only a rare delicacy is when one finally gets to savor it. Aziraphale is acquainted with these feelings, both the craving and the satisfaction, and he decides to indulge himself one more time. It’s not as if Heaven doesn’t know he’s fraternising with the enemy, mind you. Aziraphale has been called out, chastised, even punched in the gut for that, so he might as well do as he pleases. For the Almighty’s sake, they could’ve sent him straight to irrevocable death if it wasn’t for Crowley’s demonic help. So he tosses the lip balm on the table and, with both hands, takes Crowley’s sunglasses off.

Aziraphale doesn't blush as he thought he would while he peers up at Crowley’s face, enjoying even the few inches of height Crowley’s got on him. Aziraphale realizes that he’s never actually taken a good look into his demon friend in all those centuries, at least not unafraid like this. Crowley’s eyes are so golden in this light, unblinking, eerily captivating. Crowley’s eyebrows are making that thing where they go all the way up to his hairline, almost touching his crimson hair, but he doesn’t say anything, silently allowing Aziraphale to keep doing whatever it is that he’s doing. 

Truth be told, Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s doing, so perhaps that’s why he stares into Crowley’s eyes for more time than etiquette says is adequate, trying to fathom what’s behind that yellow glimmer. Such sulphur depths should be forbidden to angels, but Aziraphale is not a regular angel anymore. He suspects he never was, for no angelic creature is supposed to find beauty in the dark slitted pupils of the oldest of serpents. 

It’s been a long time since Crowley worn the form of a serpent, so black and slick. He used to meander around the Garden to nap under the sun, his scales glinting as the obsidian stones God was still concocting. Aziraphale remembers everything, particularly how he wasn’t supposed to admire such a heinous creature, but then-Crawly wasn’t heinous at all, just chatty and friendly. He looked so inoffensive, gentle even, deserving of love as much as any of God’s creations. And Aziraphale had an angelic supply of love, he could spend a small bit with Crowley. 

Crowley, who seemed to enjoy Aziraphale’s company so much, to respect his opinions in a way no angel in Heaven ever did. Aziraphale couldn’t help but grow fonder of Crowley as the thousands of years passed them by, and the demon stood as the most constant thing in the ever-changing landscape of Earth, a delightful companion throughout the ages, even when in his most stubborn, annoying, impatient of demonic moods. 

Suddenly Aziraphale shivers, very aware of his own fluttering heart, of Crowley’s fast breath. Aziraphale never felt this human before, this vulnerable, and yet so resolute, empowered by the freedom Crowley helped him to attain. It’s time for Aziraphale to let go of every uncompromising, actually cruel rule of Heaven. He owes it to himself, and even more to Crowley. God works in mysterious ways, but every once in a while is known to send a few signs to Her subjects. Aziraphale is sure this feels so right because She wants him to know that it  _ is _ .

With slow tenderness, as if he might scare a little bird, Aziraphale puts his arms around Crowley’s lanky figure and pulls him tight, closing his eyes to rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder. It feels like a miracle in itself, all the little discoveries Aziraphale makes when he was so sure he already knew everything about Crowley’s physical presence: the warmth of Crowley’s body, the sturdiness his skinny frame conceals, and that the usual scent of Crowley’s cologne actually hides an ancient, wicked smell of hot spices and woods, a bonfire set on cinnamon. Aziraphale is so overcome it takes him a moment to realize Crowley is holding him back by the waist, tentatively at first, then pulling on him as if it were possible to get any closer. 

It might be, Aziraphale ponders. It might be.

* * *

They have never embraced before.

It’s so good it’s making every hair in Crowley’s arms rise. His human heart is like a crazy gorilla banging at the cage of Crowley’s ribs, and he feels insane too, because he’s thinking about gorillas, and he’s caressing Aziraphale’s back, then smelling Aziraphale’s fragrant hair, and at that point Aziraphale is all he can think about. Crowley feels the angel clutching at his jacket, as if unwilling to let him go, and that makes one of Crowley’s hands get a little bolder. It slips up past Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, then his nape, only to stop at the back of his head, stroking the soft golden curls there.

“This feels nice,” the angel murmurs after a while.

“Yeah?” Crowley asks, afraid his voice might crack.

Aziraphale just hums and then slowly moves to face Crowley. Aziraphale has the loveliest eyes, so kind and earnest, with little crinkles at the corners when he smiles. But he looks very serious now, and also very handsome, Crowley thinks, letting his stray hand slide back down to Aziraphale’s waist. Crowley wants to kiss Aziraphale so bad, and this feels like the perfect moment, but he doesn’t want to go too fast again and scare the angel, ruin things. Crowley’s betting everything he’s got, so he must be sure the cards are right. Perhaps he should just ask Aziraphale.

“Angel,” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale grabs him by the ears. “Oh, A-Azi...” he tries again, but then Aziraphale licks his own lips and doesn’t let Crowley finish, pressing their mouths together before anything else can be mumbled.

The kiss is like nothing Crowley’s experienced before. It starts slow and gentle, until some incendiary human instinct takes hold of Crowley’s demonic mind, turning everything into a sultry mess. Aziraphale’s hands move to Crowley’s neck, tilting his head just so, and it feels wild. Crowley can do a lot of cool things with his tongue, but none of them compares to tasting the angel’s. It’s like honey, and milk, and the wine Aziraphale sipped before bringing it to Crowley, and underneath it all, it's just blissfully pure, full Aziraphale. It’s the best thing Crowley has ever tasted.

Aziraphale pulls back after what seems like not long enough, and he’s panting, his cheeks red. 

“I have to breath,” the angel says apologetically, his lips looking puffy and wet, very tempting. “My mind doesn’t want to, but my body needs it.”

“Okay,” Crowley says, also out of breath but smiling, still holding Aziraphale. Crowley feels very attuned to his human body and doesn’t give Aziraphale too much time, resuming the kiss with more passion, before the angel can complain. Pleasure spreads through Crowley’s body like a wave, pooling at some delicate spots, but almost coiling between his legs, and then _ unwinding _ as flesh. Angels and demons are sexless unless they make an effort, but this required no effort at all from Crowley. He wants to experience Aziraphale in every human way possible. 

The angel noticeably has the same idea: Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s erection against his own thigh. He used to think these things might be weird, he’s not a sex demon after all, but it feels natural. And marvelous. Crowley can’t help but snake a hand through Aziraphale’s body all the way down there and then squeeze it. He has to swallow the angel’s little gasp, but soon after Crowley’s the one moaning when Aziraphale reciprocates the caress.

A thought pops into Crowley’s mind: are angels allowed to have sex? This time, he interrupts their kissing, holding Aziraphale’s hands. 

“What?” Aziraphale asks impatiently, so flushed it’s like he’s been running, hair all messed up, little bow tie crooked. Even Aziraphale’s manners seem to have been shaken somehow. Crowley finds it endearing.

“Iss thissss… really happening?” Crowley hisses, even though he’s trying not to. It’s hard enough to find his breath.

“What do you mean?”

“Usss, now, you know. All thiss... kisssing,” Crowley starts, the hiss on full display. 

“My my, you’re hissing! Would you like me to stop?” Aziraphale sounds frustrated.

“No! I mean… sssex. Isn’t it a sssin to your kind? Would She punish you for that?”

Crowley should’ve asked about feelings, not just sex, but the sex talk takes courage enough. One thing at a time, maybe.

“Oh, dear. Don’t you worry about me, I’m so tired of the safety of rules. Do you really want us to go through with it?”

Crowley answers with a kiss. He thinks about slowing it down a bit, but Aziraphale picks up right where they stopped. The room gets inferno-hot, sweltering, and Crowley starts taking his jacket off. Aziraphale helps so they don’t have to break the kiss. It’s harder to take the angel’s coat, and they laugh in each others mouths, both fumbling with waistcoats, belts, trouser braces, undershirts... Crowley knows they could just miracle everything off, but this way to undress, the human way, feels much better. Soon enough they’re panting, both stark naked while their clothes lie scattered on the floor, over the bookshop carpet.

They’re not laughing anymore. 

* * *

A fully cognizant Aziraphale might have found the scene preposterous: two undressed men staring at each other as if they had never seen naked people before, all their fine garments cluttering the floor, both of them very aroused, ready to - well,  _ ready _ . But Aziraphale’s train of thought got wrecked half an hour earlier, probably when he felt Crowley sniffing his hair. Now the demon is looking at him intently, biting a lip, waiting.

Crowley doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands due to not having any pockets but, to be fair, there’s nothing even remotely silly about him at this moment. Crowley looks splendid even hesitating: a naive temptation, his vulnerability exposed. Aziraphale feels burned by Crowley’s golden gaze, enticed by Crowley’s lithe body, all long limbs and soft angles. There’s hair between his legs, so red. Aziraphale wants to kiss him all over, from the eyelids to the skinny feet, lingering in the middle, under Crowley’s navel, between his hip bones. Every part of the human body is kissable, he wonders, or is it just Crowley’s body? 

He takes Crowley by the hand and sits on the soft cushion, spreading his own legs and pulling Crowley closer.

“May I touch it?” Aziraphale asks faintly, and Crowley just nods. He’s so hard under Aziraphale’s slow fingers, so warm. Crowley clutches at Aziraphale’s shoulders to maintain his balance, eyes fluttering close, a little hiss escaping his lips.  _ God Almighty, he looks scrumptious _ , Aziraphale thinks, moving one hand faster, using the other to caress Crowley’s groins, then gingerly touch his testicles. Crowley shivers and Aziraphale decides to taste him, just licking at the tip to see how Crowley will react. But Aziraphale barely has time to appreciate the flavor.

Crowley groans, opens his eyes and fixes them in Aziraphale’s for a moment before bending to kiss him like a maniac. Crowley gets on his knees and it feels like a desperate, unguarded confession. There’s something devilish about Crowley’s kisses now, the way they go down Aziraphale’s neck, his chest, his belly, sometimes with the luscious scratch of Crowley’s sharp teeth. And yet Aziraphale wants to protest, he won’t have Crowley kneeling before him.

“Ah, sweet boy…” Aziraphale says, the words trembling with his body, his knuckles going white from gripling at the blankets that cover the sofa. “My sweet, sweet Crowley… please, don’t - ah, don't get...” But he goes quiet when Crowley reaches what he’s been looking for, lapping at the head of Aziraphale’s erection, enveloping it with his lips. Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair and the demon raises his head to peek at him, resting his forearms on Aziraphale’s thighs. A glinting string of saliva still connects Crowley’s lips to the angel’s body.

“Don’t get  _ what _ ?” Crowley asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Don’t get on your knees,” replies Aziraphale, catching his breath. 

Crowley smirks. “But I want to,” he says, planting a chaste kiss on Aziraphale’s lips, then whispering in his ear. “So I can have your cock in my mouth.”

“Crowley, no swearing...” Aziraphale murmurs.

“I'm not!” Crowley says, feigning offense and sitting back. “It’s called  _ dirty talk _ , ‘supposed to get you going and stuff.” He’s smirking again.

“You’re just being naughty,” Aziraphale says, pushing Crowley’s tousled hair back. 

“That’s the spirit!”

“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley goes down between his legs, effectively thwarting further protest. It takes a while for Aziraphale to register Crowley’s hands parting his knees, Crowley’s head moving up and down, Crowley’s absurd tongue, and then the sounds Crowley makes…  _ Heaven _ , like someone slurping a very obscene ice lolly, perhaps their first ice lolly after thousands of years wandering a desert. 

Crowley keeps at it with wanton enthusiasm, kissing and licking and sucking. He holds Aziraphale by the base, to better guide him into his mouth, finding a rhythm that will surely drive the angel mad. Aziraphale can’t even open his eyes for how good this feels, his head tossed back against the shelf behind the sofa. Tension stiffens his body, but in a good, tingling way, that brings to his mind a fact Aziraphale seldom contemplates about human biology: oral sex involves orgasms. He grabs a fistful of Crowley’s hair.

“C-Crowley, darling… stop, please. Stop, I’m too close…”

Aziraphale can hear his own pleading voice, eyes still pinched shut. He tugs at Crowley’s hair again, a bit more insistent this time, and Crowley parts from him, hissing loudly. Before Aziraphale can mourn the absence of his mouth, Crowley sits on his lap, straddling him. He puts a hand on each side of Aziraphale’s head, and moves his hips very slowly, rubbing his own erection against Aziraphale’s. 

“Look at me, angel,” Crowley whispers. “Angel. Won’t you look at me?”

Aziraphale does, with a heavy-lidded, pleasure-drunk gaze. He holds Crowley’s waist, gently.

“Your eyes look dark,” Crowley continues in a low voice, like he’s telling a secret. “Not blue anymore.” He sighs, and kisses Aziraphale in the same languid pace. Aziraphale can taste himself in Crowley’s mouth. It’s equal parts very indecent and very delectable.

Also not enough.

* * *

Crowley still can’t believe he’s actually sitting on Aziraphale’s lap, the angel is using one hand to keep him steady. It’s even less believable that the other hand just started stroking the length of Crowley’s cock.  _ Bollocks, angel, so much time we’ve waisted _ , Crowley thinks.

“Angels can’t be dark” Aziraphale says, using Crowley’s conspiratorial tone. “You’re just teasing me.”

“Well, I  _ am _ a demon. We’re meant to tease.”

Aziraphale laughs, low in his chest. It’s not his usual squealing, bright laughter.

“Seductive fiend,” he whispers in Crowley’s ear. Then he grabs Crowley and put him out of his lap with an easy, fluid motion that startles the demon. In seconds Crowley is lying on his back on the floor and Aziraphale is on top of him looking  _ very _ dark, even a bit menacing, and it’s deliciously unexpected. Crowley wonders if the recent need to wield his flaming sword and take a definitive stand against Heaven have something to do with Aziraphale’s thrilling self-assurance. But then Aziraphale kisses him deeply, bites Crowley’s lower lip, mouths at Crowley’s chin, and any sophisticated thought evades Crowley.

“You taste so good, darling,” Aziraphale says in a muffled voice, licking Crowley’s neck, biting his bony shoulder. Then he sits back and spreads Crowley’s thighs apart while stroking his own erection. Crowley cannot look away, propped up on his elbows. 

“Do you really want me to make love to you?” Aziraphale asks, his voice clear now.

“Are you not  _ seeing _ me?” Crowley manages to say, pointing to his very hard, leaking prick. He doesn’t sneer at the use of  _ making love _ , can’t even pretend not to like it.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Instead, he drops on his hands and knees and sucks Crowley until the demon moans loud. Crowley breathes harder as Aziraphale’s tongue goes lower, as he holds Crowley’s hips licking all the way down. Crowley tries to say something -  _ angel, what are you doing? _ \- but can’t articulate it. 

“Hold your legs up,” Aziraphale requests, panting, and Crowley pulls them against his own chest. “I’m going to kiss you  _ here _ ,” he says, touching softly at the rim of Crowley’s hole _ . _ His bones melt under Aziraphale’s tongue, the wet sounds so lewd Crowley might come just from listening to them. He struggles not to squirm, and the angel holds him in place. Then Aziraphale sits back on his heels again and, very gently, slips a finger inside Crowley, while keeping the other hand on one of Crowley’s knees. Crowley can’t think of words to describe the feeling, but he shudders, wanting more,  _ wanting _ so bad he thinks he’ll discorporate.

“You’re so tight… am I hurting you?” the angel asks, but doesn’t wait for Crowley to answer. He withdraws the finger, puts it in his own mouth to cover it with more saliva, then inserts it again. “Is it better, dear?”

“It’s.. ah, it’s so good, angel, you’re ssso good,” Crowley whispers, surrendering, closing his eyes, drifting in a wave of unthinkable pleasure, and he listens to himself moaning  _ Aziraphale _ .

It’s the softest, most secret, breathless utterance of the principality’s name, but it’s all it takes. Aziraphale parts Crowley’s legs, accommodates between Crowley’s thighs, and pushes himself inside slowly.  _ Oh, he’s rather big, the bastard _ , Crowley thinks - but Crowley can take it, he yearns to take it, so fucking much. He opens his eyes and meets Aziraphale frowning with the effort. Sweat drips from his face and falls into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley strains his neck up to kiss him, and it’s ungraceful and sloppy, tasting like sweat, but also amazing.

It almost doesn’t hurt. Aziraphale has done a proper job getting both of them slick with all that spit, but Crowley doesn't mind a bit of pain when the prize is Aziraphale inside him like this. Crowley is still so hard, and it feels nice having his cock trapped between their bodies like that. Sneaky humans and their wonderful inventions: Crowley’s sure no supernatural creature would be able to come up with something like sex. It’s confusing and dirty and difficult, but at the same time just bloody brilliant. 

At some point Aziraphale stops moving, and Crowley can see his arms trembling slightly, damp with sweat.

“I’m all the way in,” the angel whispers. “Are you okay?”

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale kisses him and starts moving again, in and out. 

_ Oh. _

_ It’s the friction _ is the last thing Crowley can think. He goes brainless, pure instinct, melting around Aziraphale; it feels utterly human and yet transcendent, an earthly miracle on its own. Crowley’s vaguely aware that he’s whimpering, a little weak sound every time Aziraphale thrusts into him, but he can’t help it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whines, “if you keep doing that, I won’t last!”

But Crowley doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. He just feels Aziraphale going faster, deeper, and listens to him murmuring praise that dissolves into nonsense and a lot of  _ darlings _ and  _ dears _ and  _ oh heavens _ , until the angel goes silent and their bodies make the only noise in the bookshop. When Aziraphale comes, he repeats Crowley’s name again and again, like a prayer, like a supplication.

Then he grabs Crowley’s cock. It takes only a few hard squeezes for Crowley to follow his angel into the same blissful and so far unknown paradise of orgasm. Crowley doesn’t even say anything, just mewls very, very faintly as his come splashes against their bellies, over Aziraphale’s closed fist.

* * *

There’s a drowsy, boneless demon beneath Aziraphale, with arms splayed across the floor, wet wisps of red hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead.  _ Well, I guess I’ve defeated my first minion of Hell _ , Aziraphale thinks, smiling, licking the creature’s come off of his fingers. It tastes bitter, but not in a foul way. If Crowley wasn’t looking semi comatose Aziraphale would’ve made him taste it, too. He thinks about miracling both of them clean, but that’s not how humans do it, and until now the human way has proved to be rather enjoyable. 

“Crowley? Are you awake?”

The demon opens one yellow eye and mumbles something that sounds like “Hum?”

“Would you like to take a bath?” Aziraphale asks between soft kisses to Crowley’s cheeks.

“Feeling guilty for making me filthy?” He murmurs, accepting the kisses.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphle laughs.

“Yeah, you’re actually leaking off of me as we speak.”

“You’re disgusting,” Aziraphale replies in a playful tone. “Come, let’s take a bath upstairs. Unless you’d prefer a miracle.”

Lazily, Crowley rubs the other eye open.

“Nah. Human way today. Does that bathtub  _ works _ ?”

“Of course it does! We can rest on my bed afterwards. If you want, I mean.”

“Okay,” Crowley yawns, stretches his arms.

Aziraphale gets on his feet and offers a hand to Crowley. He still looks mouthwatering even like this, covered in come, sweat, and saliva. Aziraphale flushes thinking about how very filthy that sounds, but Crowley doesn’t look defiled, just rather sleepy and unusually disheveled. He takes Aziraphale’s hand and stands up, then examines the skin on his stomach.

“Look, it gets crusty,” Crowley says, scratching himself with his index finger, looking so adorable. Aziraphale smiles fondly.

“Yes, human bodily fluids. Fascinating subject, huh? Now let’s take a bath, dear” the angel says.

Crowley kisses him on the mouth, then heads to the narrow staircase.  _ Such a good boy, who could imagine him in Hell? _ Aziraphale watches him go, appreciating the mortal flesh on his skinny demon, while miracling new and clean plumbing for the bathtub, silken sheets for his ancient bed. 

Aziraphale feels so contented, God bless him.


End file.
